


licht

by Xine



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Broken Bones, Corporal Punishment, Fictitious drugs, Grief/Mourning, Group Marriage, I wrote this fic for me but y'all can read it if you want, M/M, Multi, Murder, Not RPF, Parent-Child Relationship, Physical Abuse, Polyamory, Sonne AU, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27110842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xine/pseuds/Xine
Summary: Schneewittchen always carried with her an irresistible magnetism, warmth radiating off her like coal in a fire pit. Being in her presence was as if they had lived underground their entire lives, and her beautiful face was the sun bathing them in warm light as they crawled from the darkness. She glowed wherever she walked. It was intoxicating.All of them were wise to this, of the power she held over them, her love in one hand and her retribution in the other. It simply didn’t matter that it came with a price — she was theirs, and they hers.(Wherein the six dwarves attempt to cope with their ward's sudden resurrection.)
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Paul Landers/Till Lindemann/Christian Lorenz/Oliver Riedel/Christoph Schneider
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	licht

**Author's Note:**

> Me, writing bandom fic? It's more likely than you think.

There was little hope or expectation that any peace would be found after her resurrection. It was a bleak thought that they all shared as they returned home with Schneewittchen at their side, a shattered casket left in their wake, but only Schneider was willing to speak it aloud.

The admission arrived suddenly and awkwardly, Schneewittchen fast asleep in her bed and the six of them scrubbing their skin of deep-earth grime.

Their ward spared no time in coercing them back into the mines, her demands shrouded in saccharine admiration for their work and silent threats of violence were they to fail at it. They abided, of course, as they always have. Several hours of effort and they scrounged up a handful of glittering pebbles by the end of it.

And it had left them painfully sore, their bodies wracked with grief, catharsis, and longing in the days since they found her stiff with rigor in the bath. They were so careful, so meticulous with her funeral rites, it took nearly a fortnight to forge her casket, to prepare her body, to carry her up that mountain to finally lay her to rest.

Lying beneath the chiffon they splayed over her form, she looked as alive, as vibrant as the evening before she died. She hadn’t decayed in that entire time. They tried not to think about it.

Oliver, sat atop a stool with Schneider knelt between his feet, rubbed circles into the man’s back, the washcloth long since stained with soot, edges frayed into mere threads after years of wear and tear. He didn’t know what to say, his mind too tired, too pained to think of some kind of response, so he said nothing.

Schneider dug his nails into his scalp, the suds discolored a sickly grey as they spilled from his ears to his shoulders. “I don't know how much longer I can do this,” he continued, spreading the soap onto his face and rubbing it into the pores.

The rest of them sat in silence. Paul kept his head down, exfoliating the heel of his foot with a chunk of pumice. To his right sat Till and Flake, the former pouring a pitcher of water over the latter’s head, the side of his palm pressed against Flake’s brow to keep the soapy water out of his eyes. Richard just stared hard at Schneider’s hunched form, curled up in a corner of the wet room as he nervously picked out the dirt caught under his nails.

Though he didn’t see it, Schneider knew that Till was nodding his head, his jaw clenched and his mouth pursed into a thin line. They had been having conversations along these lines for a while, long before Schneewittchen’s overdose. Such discussions were hushed, however, the two of them deeply, painfully aware that the rest of the dwarves were not ready to even consider letting her go, no matter how abusive she grew as the years passed.

How could they, when they had practically raised her themselves?

Schneewittchen always carried with her an irresistible magnetism, warmth radiating off her like coal in a fire pit. Being in her presence was as if they had lived underground their entire lives, and her beautiful face was the sun bathing them in warm light as they crawled from the darkness. She glowed wherever she walked. It was intoxicating.

All of them were wise to this, of the power she held over them, her love in one hand and her retribution in the other. It simply didn’t matter that it came with a price — she was theirs, and they hers.

They traded no further words that evening. This was a conversation they weren’t prepared to have, not yet.

Cleansed and dressed in their sleepwear, the six of them filtered into the bedroom hall, the three double mattresses pressed together to form one long, massive bed. The sight was hardly odd to them and, truthfully, was only a matter of time that it became their norm.

Till and Paul were more than enthusiastic to share a bed together when they first built this little cabin of theirs, though resigned that they lacked privacy in such a large, communal sleeping space. It certainly wasn’t what they were used to. Back in the village, where the six of them were spread out into separate homes, each of them hardly had enough room for one to eat, bathe, and sleep.

Leaving the village for the forest, building their own home — it allowed the six of them to live as the family they were, no longer confined to seeing each other in the mines or around town. For Till and Paul, it brought the opportunity to live in marriage as they had intended for so long. They ended up not having the ceremony nor registering their union with the kingdom, but they wore the rings anyway.

Within a couple years, Oliver switched beds with Flake, hungry to clutch onto Schneider as the two of them drifted to sleep. Five months later, a week before they stumbled upon a human child lost in the woods, Flake squeezed himself between Till and Paul, thin enough to fit in what little space was there. In time, more rings found homes on new fingers.

Richard would be kind enough to share his bed with a young Schneewittchen — guarding the poor girl from the shadows that played tricks on her eyes or the nightmares that woke her in the middle of the night — for some time before she quickly outgrew the tiny bed, and eventually the entire cabin.

By the time they had finished constructing a house of her own atop a nearby hill — not an inconsequential feat, considering they had to build twice as large this time around — the then thirteen year old Schneewittchen had to slouch her entire torso to fit through their dwarf-sized door.

Schneewittchen wasn't alone in her excitement of having a space of her own. Richard was, at first, thrilled to have the bed all to himself after four years. After less than a week, however, he missed the feeling of having another body beside him while he slept. He pushed his bed against the one Till, Paul, and Flake shared, and slotted so neatly against Paul's back it was only a wonder why they hadn't done this sooner. By the end of the year, Richard had finally been gifted a wedding band of his own.

Their sleeping arrangements had hardly changed in the eight years since that night. The only difference now is that they all sleep together, not a gap to be found between the mattresses, a development brought upon the simultaneous emptiness and relief wrought upon them by Schneewittchen's sudden death.

Mere hours after finding her body, Schneider came across a quietly weeping Richard. Taking his hand in his own and intertwining their fingers, they shared a tearful look and silently agreed that this was how it was meant to be, in multiple senses of the phrase. Later, Oliver pushed his and Schneider’s bed to Richard's. Not a query was uttered as they all settled in for the night. This was their normal, even if outsiders would scowl upon its sight. It granted them peace, having everyone so close at their most vulnerable, and they all slept as well as they could after such a profound loss.

But with Schneewittchen alive and well just up the hill, a heavy air of anxiety blanketed over them, suffocating their lungs and weighing down their hearts with unwavering apprehension.

What will she do?

* * *

The dread felt among all of them was not unwarranted.

It started slowly, Schneewittchen rapping on the door at the crack of dawn, unrelenting in her quest to rouse them from slumber. It worked for nearly all of them. Flake, however, was already awake and had been for at least two hours, but being pinned down to the mattress by Till’s heavy arm over his chest and Paul clutching onto his left arm left him unable to leave.

He had already been ruminating over what would be awaiting them in the morning. A pit of uncertainty had formed in his stomach and none of his attempts at self-soothing — matching his breathing to the bodies curled around him, counting to a thousand, playing a game of beleaguered castle solitaire in his head — granted him further rest. Stuck for so long, he was itching to get some kind of work done, if only to ease his overclocked mind.

Yet, as Till and Paul released their holds upon him as they woke — the other three similarly stirring from rest — Flake could not find the will to move. Till pat his chest a few times. “Time to get up,” he mumbled, the dark circles underlining his eyes matching his fatigued tone, before pushing himself off the bed. Flake stayed frozen.

Paul remained a bit longer, watching Till leave for the foyer and the woman awaiting on the other side of the door. Once Till had disappeared past the bedroom doorway, he turned to Flake, who lay on his back and looked as if he were on the edge of tears.

“Hey,” Paul began, sliding his hand from Flake’s sternum to cup his cheek. With some nudging, Flake finally rolled his head upon the thin, flat pillow and met eyes with his partner. Paul’s expression of concern, which would usually stir a bout of affection in his stomach, did little to assuage the anxiety lighting aflame to his senses. “You alright?”

A beat, and then Flake shook his head.

Such a glum response earned him a frown and knitted brows. Paul leaned down to place a kiss on Flake’s lips, a chaste one meant to provide comfort. Flake can’t really say if it worked, but he appreciated the gesture regardless, and returned it until Paul pulled away.

“Maybe it won’t be as bad this time,” Paul said, gently rubbing his thumb along the curve of Flake’s cheekbone.

Flake almost laughs. “Even you don’t sound convinced,” he replied, smiling without any mirth to back it up. Leave it to Paul to search for the silver linings.

Mirroring the same, sad smile, Paul sighed. Without another word, he removed his hand and crawled over the foot of the bed, stumbling with sleep-heavy legs to search for fresh clothes in the chest of drawers. Everything suddenly felt much colder.

Turning his head fully to the right, Flake landed his gaze upon Richard, curled in the fetal position underneath his bedsheet, clutching the pillow white-knuckled underneath his head, and scowling at some faraway spot beyond the doorway. Tears streamed down to his temple.

As much as they all loved Schneewittchen, there was little doubt that Richard was simultaneously the closest and most attached to their charge. Each of them had a particular quality that she was fond of — Paul’s playfulness, Till’s tenderness, Oliver’s generosity, Schneider’s tenacity, Flake’s chivalrousness — but Richard was her unspoken favorite. No one was perhaps more hurt by her maltreatment and unexpected death than he.

He had hardly spoken a word since they discovered her body, effectively having gone into a catatonic state in her absence. For several days on end he did not leave his bed, refusing to eat and completely unresponsive to any attempt made by the other five to get him moving. The best they could do was make him drink water, a joint effort by Till and Paul as the former held his body up and the latter gingerly brought a cup to his lips. By the fourth evening, they acquiesced to his way of grieving and decided to surround him as they lied down to sleep, hands resting on whatever part of him they could reach. They could only hope that it provided him comfort.

Once the seventh day arrived, Richard finally severed himself from a deathbed of his own making, forcing himself to bathe and to put something in his vacant stomach. He quietly joined Till and Flake as they etched delicate, swirling designs in the golden frame of what was to be Schneewittchen’s casket, taking a chisel in hand and getting to work. Till and Flake merely let him do as he wished with the engraving, Till pausing to wrap an arm around Richard's shoulders and bringing their foreheads together for a few moments. When they parted, Flake and Richard made eye contact, and Richard gave him the smallest of anguished smiles.

When Richard wasn’t aiding in the construction of Schneewittchen’s casket, he would disappear off in the forest, the sounds of guitar strings filtering back to the cabin. He spent hours on end on his own, crafted a farewell song that, once they all heard during her funeral, intensified the flow of their tears. It was cathartic.

All the healing he had gone through in that week had seemingly been undone in one day. The two of them were the last to leave the bed, Oliver and Schneider joining Paul in getting dressed, stripping their battered bodies of their nightwear with passive acceptance of the day ahead. In the distance, Schneewittchen’s voice filtered through the house, and Richard’s entire body tensed, curling further into himself.

Flake, in spite of the sinking sensation in his gut pulling him deeper into the mattress, forced himself to roll onto his side to face Richard proper. He reached a hand out, stretching a long arm across the gap between them and beckoning Richard to take it. After a moment, Richard tore his gaze away from the door and met Flake's, taking in a sharp breath when he did. Slowly, Richard unraveled an arm from his pillow and splayed his fingers atop the offered hand. Flake intertwined them, scars hooking around callouses, a testament to all the work they’ve done together.

They lie like that for what felt like a century, tears spilling from Richard’s eyes and a compassionate furrow knotting in Flake’s brows. It had been hard for any of them to find the words for their circumstances since Schneewittchen died, and her sudden revival did little to help such matters. Flake was never good with words anyway. All he knew to do was express his love through service and affection, so that’s what he did.

Footsteps approached the line of beds and stopped. Flake glanced over to see Schneider, dressed in one of his many black A-shirts and matching trousers, clothing draped over his arm, his other hand holding the garments in place. “Richard,” he began, voice low and soft. Oliver stood behind him, hands folded at the front of his stomach, face stony but pensive. “Let’s get you dressed.”

For a long moment, Richard didn’t react, continuing in his everlasting stare. Oliver, ever quiet, carefully sat down at the foot of the bed. Once he gently laid a hand upon Richard’s leg, Richard shifted, turning his shoulders until he laid on his back. Sniffling, he nodded, giving Flake’s hand a final squeeze before untangling their fingers.

Oliver helped Richard to sit up, Schneider resting a knee on the mattress and wiping away Richard’s tears. Flake watched them until he felt the mattress dip at his calves, Paul perched atop the sheets with clothes stacked between his hands. “Here,” Paul spoke, that conflicted smile still upon his lips. Flake sat up, quietly thanking him as he brought a hand to his upper back, pulling the nightshirt off and over his head. Static crackled at Flake’s head, causing strands of hair to defy gravity and float off his scalp. It made Paul chuckle. Flake liked that sound.

At the door came Till, the only one still in his nightclothes. “Schneewittchen wants us over for breakfast,” he announced, making his way to the wardrobe, the wall beside it lined with several guitars. “She’s made Kaiserschmarrn.”

In the corner of his eye, Flake saw Richard perk up at Till’s words, his hands in the midst of unbuttoning his sleepshirt. A shared favorite breakfast dish, one that he taught her when she was still small in comparison to them. Flake remembers it well, the mess the two of them made, flour covering nearly every surface of the kitchen and stray drops of batter splattered on the stove. It was a happy morning, laughter emanating from the room and filling the cabin with infectious joy.

Nostalgia ate at the soft meat of his heart.

Flake turned to Paul and the two of them share a look, Paul’s smile losing its saddened quality and revealing nothing but plain hope. He can’t help wanting to have that same faith in the good in the world. Maybe it won’t be as bad.

* * *

Paul felt like a fool.

He didn’t believe in innate evil — or, at least, he thought he didn’t. He had little reason to think otherwise, his childhood being happy, carefree, and otherwise untroubled. There was trauma from the death of his parents when he was on the verge of adolescence, but they were old, fragile. No one had done anything to them, just victims of circumstance.

The kingdom had hardly ever been benevolent, but the monarchs were never as ruthless as other royals from lands afar, if the rumors were to be believed. He didn’t put much credence into horror stories and tall tales. As far as he knew — granted, he wasn’t much of a sleuth — the king was a double widower with a lot of wealth and little else. He might have been quick to arrest people for the smallest of infractions, but calling him evil would be hyperbole.

Even the most heinous of criminals hadn’t proven that belief wrong, Paul having been able to find morsels of humanity in abusers, rapists, and murderers. At the age of eleven, he watched a man who committed homicide be publicly executed. The thing he remembers most vividly from that day was the man telling his wife in the crowd that he loved her, of the fat tears that rolled down his face before a sack was pulled over his head. They were people, albeit complicated and messy, but they had loved ones that considered them irreplaceable.

But, with an unconscious Schneider lying on the ground, bruised and battered, and Schneewittchen forbidding any of them to come to his aid, Paul felt his foundations crumbling.

Schneewittchen, in spite of his love of her, had continually inspired doubt in his mind that the good in someone can always outweigh the bad. She, regardless of all the kindness she once gave to them and others, may as well be a husk, an empty vessel of the young girl he helped raise.

It would be dishonest of him, however, to say she only became soured as an adult, as a result of the intoxicating effects of gold. There was a needling suspicion in his gut when they first found her that he had never quite been able to shake off.

Till, a restless sleeper, had been smoking a pipe on the porch when he heard whimpering beyond the trees. After grabbing a rifle, slamming his fist on the bedroom door in a pattern they designated as “wake up, ears open,” and shoving his feet in a pair of boots, Till ventured into the woods.

He came back with a human child almost as large as Paul, her clothes tattered and hands bloodied. She had clearly been wandering the forests for some time, her feet caked with mud, her ankles slashed from trudging through the flora, and her hair wet from the morning mists. It was also evident that she had been crying for hours on end, eyes reddened and round cheeks stained with tears. They were all thankful she wasn’t found by an Erlkönig.

He could remember so clearly the first time she spoke. “My name is Schneewittchen.” Her voice was so tiny, so sweet. The words sounded like music. At that moment, he decided he would do anything to protect her, to keep her safe — even his life, if it came down to it.

The rest of them forwent sleep in order to aid the poor child, each of them splitting off for their assigned tasks. Till, who had raised his own younger sisters, gave her a bath with Flake’s help. Richard and Oliver went for the kitchen to prepare her a warm meal, reviving the dying fire in the process. Schneider stayed out on the front porch, rifle in hand and eyes alert. Paul went off to find a shirt and some pants that he could spare, grabbing a pair of shears, a needle, and some thread for any hemming that would have to be done.

It was only after he came to the wet room, hastily modified clothes bundled in his arms, and overheard her admission of killing her own stepmother that he questioned his paternal instincts. At the time, he explained it away to himself — she was a mere child, she must have done it in self-defense — and pretended he didn’t even hear it. It was inconceivable to him that it could be premeditated.

But now, waiting for her to leave, to give him an opening to help Schneider, he was reminded of that initial doubt. Her voice was so steady when she said it. “I stabbed her with a butcher’s knife. Over and over. ” He didn’t know if he could keep that promise anymore.

Schneewittchen, towering over the six of them with her knuckles split and bloodied, scowled. “How many times must I teach you the hard way?” Flecks of gold shimmered on her teeth as she spoke, her pupils dark and blown out. Her fist trembled at her side.

None of them responded. Paul looked around to the others, his own heart racing. Till and Richard stood by the fireplace, their bodies still but muscles visibly tensed as Till splayed a hand protectively over Richard’s middle. Oliver knelt beside Schneider, just barely out of arms reach, breathing hard. Flake had come running when her initial outburst began, but he had gone stock still halfway through the door, hand braced on the jamb as he could only watch.

He and Flake shared a look. He could tell they were both thinking the same thing.

His own words from yesterday morning echoed in his head, mocking him for such careless optimism that things would be different this time.

If not even death could change her ways, what could?

He kept flicking his eyes back and forth, up to Schneewittchen’s beautiful face contorted by wrath, down to Schneider’s already mottled with bruises and burst blood vessels.

What a fool he was, standing up to her for pushing Oliver around. Schneider knew she wasn’t sober. They all knew very intimately how bad she could get when the metal hit her wrong.

“How many times?!” she screamed, her voice ripping through the silence like a hot knife, making them flinch. Baring her glittering teeth, eyes as large as saucers with rage, hair frazzled and standing on end like a startled cat’s fur — Paul thought she looked like a wild animal when she got like this.

He knew how to handle wild animals.

“No more,” Paul says, holding up his hands, palms out.

Schneewittchen turned her heard sharply in Paul’s direction, nostrils flaring, brows heavy over her eyes as she bored her gaze into his skull. The intensity of her stare sent shivers down his spine. He gulped involuntarily, but slowly made a step forward.

He kept his voice low, tried to keep it level despite the adrenaline surging through his veins. “This will be the last time, Sonnenschein. I promise — we promise.”

An almost manic grin split Schneewitchen’s lips. She looked as if she was about to bark with laughter.

Paul continued, “We’ll spread out, go in separate tunnels. Instead of working one tunnel, we’ll break up in groups, work different parts of the mine.”

She looked down at him with narrowed eyes, the smile falling as quickly as it came. “Why are you not doing this already?”

Paul put on a placating smile, taking another small step forward. The whole motion felt sad and pathetic. “It’s more dangerous.”

For a while, Schneewittchen just stared at him, searching his eyes — for what, he didn’t know — until she rolled her shoulders back and stood up straight. The top of her head skimmed against the slanted ceiling. “Fine,” she finally said, her tone bitter but otherwise pacified. She unclenched her sanguine fist, made a haphazard gesture to Schneider’s unconscious form on the floor. Turning her back to them, she commanded, “Clean him up.”

She began walking to the front door. Flake scurried from it, pressing his back against the adjacent wall and shuffling along it until he was flush against the corner of the room. Paul stared at her back, watched her head briefly turn towards Flake as she paused at the doorway. A few seconds, and then she ducked under the lentil, stepping across the threshold.

No one shifted as she went through the entryway, but as soon as the door slammed shut against the frame, the room quickly became a cacophony of long-held breaths, scuffling feet, and calls of Schneider’s name. Paul deflated, his hands falling loosely at his sides as he could only listen to the flurry of voices behind him. He felt dizzy.

With long strides, Flake raced up to Paul and took him into his arms, burying his face in his hair. “Don’t do that again,” Flake mumbled against his head, Paul simply nodding as he returned the embrace.

Someone ran past them in a hurry, the sudden movement stirring the air around them. By scent alone, Paul could tell it was Till, and when he pulled his head away from Flake’s chest, he called out to him.

“We need a board!” Till shouted over his shoulder, pushing open the back door in the kitchen and hopping over the step, disappearing past the wall.

“How bad is it?” Flake asked, his hands resting on Paul’s shoulders as he addressed Richard and Oliver. Paul twisted his body around, clutching the loose fabric at Flake’s waist as he looked to them, too.

Oliver, hunched over Schneider and carefully looking over the man’s wounds, said nothing. Still pressing his back to the wall, Richard hesitantly tore his eyes from Schneider’s supine body to Flake and Paul, not meeting either of their gazes. His voice was but a whisper as he answered, “Till’s worried he might have brain damage.”

Flake cursed, letting go of Paul and joining Oliver on the hardwood floor. Paul, suddenly unable to move, could only watch, as if he had just registered what he managed to do with Schneewittchen. He stared at Schneider’s battered face, a deep, painful terror filling his gut. His feet became glued to the floor.

The sound of Till’s steel-toed boots thudded loudly behind him, Till returning with a large slat of wood that, from what Paul could recall, would’ve been tucked away in the old shed out back. Something was muttered about taking off shoes. Paul didn’t hear it, not really. He couldn’t look away from the scene on the ground, didn’t really comprehend what was being done until the four of them were asking for his help.

Paul joined at Schneider’s feet, lifting the board in synchronous with his partners and beginning the arduous trek to their bedroom, careful not to jostle Schneider’s neck in the process.

By the time they got Schneider settled onto the mattress, Paul worried he might pass out, his head swimming. In a blind rush, he grabbed onto the closest thing he could reach — Richard’s upper arm — before his knees could buckle underneath him. Richard managed to catch Paul before he could hit the ground, using his kneeling spot atop the mattress as leverage.

“Are you okay?” Richard asked, out of breath, his brows knitted into a tight knot. His hands gripped onto Paul’s arms so tight that it nearly hurt.

Paul didn’t answer, still trying to find his bearings. After a few moments, he nodded, lying.

Till, having ensured that Schneider’s head was safely placed upon his pillow, stepped around Richard on the mattress and reached for Paul. Carefully, Richard pulled Paul up until his legs stood straight, Till replacing Richard’s hands with his own. Without a word, Till guided Paul onto the bed, his hands firm around Paul’s sinewy forearms. Paul let himself be handled, practically crumpling under his own body weight.

Still dizzied, Paul closed his eyes, Till letting go of his arms and instead wrapping one of his own around Paul’s middle, rotating him until his back was flush to Till’s stomach. Till held him there, rubbing circles in Paul’s shoulder with his thumb. A few seconds later and a pair of hands began unlacing his boots.

“I told you you needed to eat,” Flake murmured, his voice shaky. Paul opened his eyes just enough to peer past his eyelashes, Flake nothing but a blur in the dim light.

“You should’ve stayed quiet, Paul,” Till says, his deep voice reverberating in Paul’s chest. He clasped onto Paul around the shoulders, pulling him as close as he possibly could. “That was stupid.”

Paul laughed, a defeated and hollow sound. He brought a hand to one of Till’s arms. “You’re both asking a lot of me.”

A pair of boots landed on the floor noisily. “I…” Flake began, cutting himself off. There’s something they all wanted to say — about how wrong Paul’s bravery could have gone, how he could’ve ended up like Schneider — but no one could bring themselves to do so. It felt ugly, using Schneider’s injuries as a warning.

Flake gave one of Paul’s ankles an affectionate squeeze. “I’m going to go make tea. I’ll bring Paul some bread.”

“Okay.”

Flake disappeared into the hallway. Paul closed his eyes once more, making a conscious effort to match his breathing with Till's. Several long moments of silence pass — only faint murmuring between Richard and Oliver, the deep thrumming of Till's heartbeat reaching his ears — until Paul hazily asked, "Will Christoph be alright?"

The pause between his question and Till's answer made a heavy lump form in his throat. Till's voice arrived unsure. “I hope so.”

* * *

The first thing Schneider woke up to was an overwhelming, all-encompassing pain.

He groaned weakly, scrunching his face. His head throbbed so intensely it was as if Till had taken his jackhammer to his skull, the aches vicious and unrelenting. The pulsating pain traveled from behind his eyes and down the length of his neck, before enclosing around the cage of his ribs like claws burying into his flesh.

Judging from the pain, he feared that one or more of his ribs could be broken and did everything in his power to not aggravate them, breathing shallowly. It did little to ease the migraine clawing at his brain, but it certainly gave him focus as he tried to recall what had happened, anything he could remember before it all turned to nothingness.

The last thing — Schneewittchen screaming at him, him curling in on himself on the floor, the taste of blood lining his tongue. They stagnated in the mines, finding plenty coal but excavating only the thinnest sliver of gold for their beloved ward. The timing was just all wrong, leaving the tunnels later than they typically did to wash up before dinner. Schneewittchen had already made herself at home at their table, a dish speckled with gold dust and a discarded straw sitting in front of her.

Sometimes, the metal simply made her placid, filling her with complacency and no other desire than to revel in the ecstasy it brought. She would lean back, shut her eyes, and remain unmoving for hours. Occasionally, however, she would grow irritated, manic, like her blood had become pure adrenaline and she was prepared to fight to the death at any given moment.

That was how she sat at the table, her manicured nails incessantly tapping upon its wooden surface, breathing fast and hard. She was mercurial, balancing upon a rope the thickness of one of her stark black hairs. Presenting her with what little ore they found was an invitation to unleash the wrath burning beneath her breast, but to opt out of presenting her with their spoils for the day was simply not an option.

So, Oliver approached her — the rest of them close behind — and held out his hand with his head down, the piece of gold centered in his palm more akin to a wood shaving than a morsel of ore. The sight incensed her, and she explosively rose from her seat, the grand armchair she had sat upon nearly toppling over behind her.

Schneider couldn’t remember what words were said, but he could remember how cruel her tone was, how her mouth dripped with venom. And he remembered how she rose her hand — palm flat and fingers outstretched — over her head, the muscles in his arm wound up and stiff.

He intervened, kicking at the tendon of her heel before she could strike, and he was lucky she didn’t kill him. She didn’t appreciate insubordination, but she needed all of them if she wanted the gold she craved so dearly.

For Schneider, it didn’t even register that she wouldn’t kill him because she loved him, that she loved any of them. They provided a service. Their admiration for her was simply supplementary.

He found it became harder and harder to love Schneewittchen lately.

A sharp ache shot through his ribs once more, and Schneider hissed through his teeth as he writhed.

Where he was at the moment was hard to discern. Opening his eyes to see where he was was simply not an option, however, the mere thought of having to see any amount of light being enough to aggravate his headache further. Instead, he removed himself from the pain wracking his body as much as he was able, bringing his other senses to the forefront to try to make sense of where he awoke.

Despite the aches, he lied comfortably on what was unmistakably his bed — or, at least, his side of it — if the morph of the mattress against his back and the texture of the bedsheets were to be believed. It was either deep into the night or the curtains had been drawn closed — an unusual occurrence — as not a sliver of light pierced through his eyelids. Not a sound came from anywhere around him, which could mean that none of his five partners were snoring in their sleep — an impossible occurrence, as Till sounded like a saw put to wood consistently throughout the night — or he had been left alone.

Such deductions did little to assure him of his state.

And moving on his lonesome was simply not possible, if breathing just a bit too deeply was an easy means of morphing the soreness of his ribcage to piercing, head-swimming pain. Swallowing around the uncomfortable dryness of his throat, Schneider took in a slow breath and filled his lungs with enough air to call out, “Hello?”

He cringed at the word, his voice forming around it with croaked and weak notes, but hoped it was loud enough for someone to hear.

“Christoph?”

The voice came from afar, as if its source came from the other side of a wall. He couldn’t recognize it so muffled. The sound of the creaky door opening soon after confirmed that, yes, he was alone in their bedroom, but thankfully not alone in the house. Light, socked footsteps approached and Schneider held out a hand, reaching out for whoever was coming to his aid.

A large hand with long, thin fingers grabbed for his, holding it firmly. He knew that hand well. Schneider gave it a squeeze. “Hey, Ollie.”

With his eyes closed, Schneider couldn’t see what Oliver was doing, but he could feel him come closer, feel the mattress shift beneath him as Oliver carefully climbed on.

Then, with a feather-like touch, Oliver brought his other hand to cradle Schneider’s jaw, gingerly pressing his lips to his partner's forehead. He was so gentle that Schneider barely felt a thing. It almost made him want to cry.

Oliver pulled away after a few seconds, keeping his fingers lightly upon Schneider’s bruised skin. “How are you feeling?” he asked, voice barely audible.

“Like shit,” Schneider said, verging on irony-laden laughter but holding it in. It hurt plenty to speak — laughing might actually make him break a rib.

Without even looking at him, Schneider could tell Oliver was frowning, that his eyes were cast down in guilt. “You should’ve let her beat me,” he mumbled.

While they all endeavored a myriad of conflicting, confusing emotions at Schneewittchen’s revival, Schneider felt a worrisome undercurrent of rage. Any relief he could have felt with his child alive once again was easily washed out by a rolling wave of anger. She caused them all so much woe, so much anguish before her death — fate granting her a second wind at life was plain cruelty exacted upon them all but her.

Part of him believed he should be disgusted with himself for that thought, for feeling such emotions for someone he had raised as if she was his own blood. The rest of him — he knew that they would all lead happier, easier lives if she were gone.

He wasn’t going to listen to Oliver submit himself to Schneewittchen’s exploitation, as if any of them deserved it or that Schneider was in the wrong to stand up to it. He let out a frustrated huff out his nose, scowling. “Shut up.”

He understood why they were so submissive to her. They spent so long under her thumb it became second nature to bend to her every whim. He just wished that weren't the case, that they could be just as angry as he was.

Oliver sighed, resigned. “Is there anything I can do for you? Something I can do to help?”

Schneider thought for a moment, then said, “I need to piss.”

"Alright," Oliver replied. The heat of his body faded from Schneider’s chest as he sat back on the bed. "Can you move?"

Lifting his head from the pillow and being greeted with an avalanche of pain, Schneider bit back a whimper. "If I have to," he groaned, using his grip on Oliver's hand as leverage. Oliver brought his other hand to Schneider’s nape, supporting him and helping him sit up.

Schneider swore aloud, the pain engulfing his sides. In spite of it, he sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and braced his feet on the floor. The string of movements typically would only take ten seconds, but took him four times as long, even with Oliver’s assistance. It filled Schneider with further frustration, directed not so much at himself or Schneewittchen but rather whatever cruel maker of the world has made them its personal playthings.

Lifting his lids just slightly, Schneider peered past his eyelashes and found that the curtains had been drawn, slivers of golden light bursting from the rim of the window. It wasn’t kind to his eyes, but it was more or less as painful as everything else was.

The hand resting upon his nape disappeared, Oliver instead bringing his callused fingers to grip around Schneider’s hip, his other hand bringing Schneider’s arm over his shoulders. On the count of three, they stood up, Oliver carrying the brunt of Schneider’s body weight. They then began the slow, arduous journey to the attached water closet, Schneider keeping his eyes mostly shut as they walked along the hardwood floor.

On the far end of the house, kitchenware clattered on stone and wood, people traded words, the voices loud enough to be heard but not understood. Schneider grew confused, unable to make any sense of time. The sun shone brightly past the window, yet his partners were still home. He couldn't remember the last time that happened, at least with Schneewittchen still alive and breathing.

"How long was I asleep?" Schneider asked as Oliver used his foot to push open the door, its hinges as noisy as those on the door leading to the hall.

“Fourteen hours,” Oliver said plainly, shuffling sideways through the door, practically dragging Schneider along with him.

The answer aligned with how Schneider felt, his mind caught between the sensations of waking after three hours sleep and that of waking after twenty hours of sleep. That still left him with many questions, but encumbered with so many aches, he could barely keep himself standing upright. He hated everything about this.

Succumbing to his circumstances and swallowing any amount of pride he could still harbor in front of his spouse, Schneider allowed Oliver to assist him in the toilet, finding at least a small amount of relief by the time he was done. Seeking some form of levity to ease the heavy energy around them, Schneider made a joke about how old he had gotten, needing someone younger to help him with the most basic tasks.

Oliver didn’t respond, just helped Schneider tuck himself back into his trousers. Schneider didn’t see his face in the dark room, but he had the impression that Oliver wore a sad frown. The moment passed awkwardly. Shuffling back toward the door, the sound of the water faucet filled the room. “Can you stand?” Oliver asked, his voice unreadable.

Schneider nodded, regretted the pulses of pain it sent through his head, and then replied, “Yes.” The two of them washed their hands together in the sink, Schneider trying his hardest to — and succeeding in — not letting the hunk of soap slip and fly out of his grasp.

As Oliver sought out Schneider’s hands with one of his own, Schneider said, “I want to see everyone.”

For a long moment, Oliver stayed silent, bringing a towel to Schneider’s soaked hands and helping him dry them. He said nothing as he threw the damp cloth back onto its hook upon the wall, Oliver then grabbing Schneider’s arm and putting it over his shoulders again. He began to pull them out of the water closet, but Schneider resisted, digging a heel in the opposite direction.

“Oliver,” Schneider said sternly, his eyes fully open and searching for Oliver’s face in the darkness. Oliver stopped, the two of them separated by the door frame. “I’m serious.”

A sigh. “You need to rest,” Oliver finally responded. “We’re scared you might have a concussion, at best.”

“Well, I don’t,” Schneider snapped.

“Christoph, Till was adamant.”

“I don’t care. I’m fine.” Schneider, frustrated, wrangled himself out of Oliver’s hold, using his partner’s height against him by simply dropping to the ground. He landed hard on the wood floor, a loud thud echoing through the house. His head swam and his left hip hurt from the fall, but he did not falter. “I’m not going to spend my day alone in bed.”

From somewhere on the other side of the cabin, a voice called out. “Everything alright?”

“Yes!” Schneider shouted, immediately regretting it, the volume unkind to his piercing headache. He held his head in his hand, groaning and squeezing his eyes shut. He hoped Flake still had some elixirs in the pantry. Getting through the day without any to level out the pain would present a formidable challenge, knowing that alcohol certainly wouldn’t cut it on its own. He could really do with a pint of mead, though.

Another sigh, more resigned than the last. “Okay,” Oliver replied, reaching down and grabbing Schneider’s forearms. “Let’s get you on the sofa.”

With Oliver's help, Schneider got back on his feet, and the two of them made their way down the hall and into the cabin's central room. He was thankful all the shutters on the windows were still shut from the evening before, only a few candles spread out throughout the room lit to illuminate the open space. It was dim enough that keeping his eyes open — or, at the very least, peering past his eyelashes — wasn’t any more painful than keeping them closed.

They arrived to a largely empty room, Richard sat alone at the dining table with a leather-bound notebook and pen. Schneider assumed everyone else was in the kitchen, which was confirmed when a loud crash was followed by Paul wheezing with laughter, Flake yelling in frustration, and Till apologizing profusely. The cacophony made Schneider chortle as he and Oliver emerged through the archway to the hall, Schneider leaning heavily against Oliver’s side.

The chuckle caught the attention of Richard, who raised his head to look and then nearly bolted from his seat, the bench skidding across the floor with a mild screech as he stood. He crossed the distance so quickly, Schneider wondered if he blinked for a whole second. Maybe he was still just very dizzy.

Richard brought his hands to Schneider’s face, skimming the surface as he examined the bruised swelling of his skin. In the small gap between his eyelids, Schneider saw a deep frown form on his face, eyes wide and shiny beneath knitted brows. Richard leaned forward, pressed his lips softly against the corner of Schneider’s lips, and asked, “Are you okay?”

Schneider hummed, jutting his chin forward as he searched for Richard’s lips, wanting the kiss to last just a bit longer. “No, but I will be,” he replied once he landed a peck on Richard’s mouth, Oliver giving him a squeeze around his shoulder as he did so.

“Come on, let’s get you seated,” Oliver said, Richard quickly meeting Schneider’s left and wrapping an arm around his waist. They take him to the sofa, the fireplace holding glowing embers from the night prior. The floor beside it was still warm.

The moment his body met the cushions, Schneider sighed with relief. Oliver was right that he needed rest, but he wasn’t about to say that aloud. He could just as easily recover physically on the sofa with his partners than he could alone in the bedroom, a single body on a row of mattresses large enough to fit five others. Being on his lonesome when he could be with his loved ones would only serve to bludgeon him mentally.

Once Schneider was seated on the sofa, Oliver knelt and grabbed a hold of Schneider’s ankles, pivoting his body so that he lay supine upon it. Schneider adjusted himself, sliding down his back until his head leaned against the armrest. Oliver and Richard both sat beside him on the floor, Richard taking Schneider’s hand into one of his own and bringing his lips to the scarred row of knuckles.

Paul peeked his head around the corner from the kitchen, a large, goofy grin plastered across his face. It was so bright Schneider felt compelled to close his eyes again. “Schneider!” he exclaimed, the amusement dropping into concern as he ran back into the kitchen, more clattering echoing into the rest of the cabin before he returned, a bundle of cloth cradled in his hands.

“Hi, Paul,” Schneider said, letting his eyes fall shut. He must look awful for everyone to react so startled at the sight of his face. “What are Till and Flake doing?”

“Making breakfast,” came Paul’s voice, just above his head. Some shuffling and then there was Paul’s thigh flush against his arm, fitting just barely on the sliver of cushion still available. “Hold on, I brought you ice,” he said, and then a cold, damp lump of cloth met Schneider’s eyes, Paul holding it there.

Immediately, Schneider felt the pain begin to fade from piercing to simple ebbing. “Thank you,” he mumbled, blindly searching for Paul’s arm with the hand not pressed to Richard’s mouth, eventually finding his forearm and giving it a few pats. Then, the strangeness of the situation came back in full swing. “Why aren’t you in the mines?”

A pause. “Schneewittchen told us not to, today,” Richard said, his lips grazing Schneider’s fingers. “So we can take care of you.”

Mercy from their ward wasn’t common — and, in this case, highly suspect — but he was grateful for it all the same. Schneider sighed. “We’ll just have to be more careful,” he said, “so this doesn’t happen again.”

* * *

Walking on eggshells around Schneewittchen was a tiresome, exhaustive task, but it was one they had years of experience in.

Over the past few months, it had granted them a sense of stability that was severely lacking in the several days succeeding her resurrection. It was, unfortunately, easier to simply abide to Schneewittchen’s every demand than to resist her in any way. They made a concerted effort to live much as they had before she died — almost as if the event hadn’t happened at all — just to salvage a modicum of peace for the week.

Their efforts were enough that, every so often, they would earn a day off from working themselves to the bone underground, in the rare event that Schneewittchen was content with the fruits of their labor the day before. They were thankful whenever it was granted to them, Till and Richard most deeply so, as they would often overcompensate for her generosity by showering her in other services like washing her hair or giving massages.

It was hard for Oliver to tell if they did it out of habit, out of fear, or out of genuine love. He himself fell in the third category for a very long time, eager to shower her in his longstanding affection. He was always so ready to gift her new things that made him think of her, so ready to do favors without being asked. Her unexpected death, however, had pulled the wool from his eyes, Oliver having realized how abnormal their lives had become once Schneewittchen was no longer present. He never would have imagined himself to submit to someone else’s will so easily, for so long.

When that apple shattered her casket and she sat up in shock, the weight of grief in Oliver’s chest transformed to one of dread. The weight was suffocating, unrelenting in its endeavors to drain Oliver of his most base motivations, and being in Schneewittchen’s presence at any given time was sufficient to make him feel like he was drowning.

It was one of several reasons why he was more than happy to take the responsibility of grocery runs, even on the few days where he could spend it all with his partners in a place that wasn’t the mines. More than anyone else, Oliver cherished his alone time, and the lengthy trips to and from the kingdom were the exact remedies he required to salve his need for solitude.

Being in the heart of the markets was certainly the opposite of solitary, but knowing exactly what he had to purchase — rather than blindly browsing the wares and goods available — made the experience brief and relatively painless. The hardest part was pulling the cart through the crowds — trying his damnedest not to run over anyone’s toes — without being an annoyance. He’s never liked drawing attention to himself.

With every stop he made, the cart became heavier and harder to pull, crates filled with jugs of milk, bags of flour, fresh fruit, and clusters of dry hops inside. It had been some time since they made their own beer — the only substance they would allow themselves to in excess — so he hoped that they could find the time for it again sometime soon. It was his favorite thing to do with his partners, having an excuse to pass time with cooking, singing, and dancing as the water came to a boil or letting the fermented drink cool off outside.

Nowadays, they hardly had time for such things, barely had time for one another. It was straining, regardless of how strong their relationships were, and they all knew that they were often held together by a mere string. It filled him with woe.

They got lucky, though, about three months ago. In the midst of the ear-piercing roar of Till’s jackhammer, Richard hollered from a lone arm of the underground. Everyone dropped what they were doing immediately and rushed to the sound, fearful of his being hurt, and were instead met with Richard holding an extracted piece of gold ore the size of Paul’s fist.

Elated, they rushed up the ladder and stormed Schneewittchen’s cottage, knocking vigorously at her door until she swung it open. Richard held it out to her without a word, and she looked about as flabbergasted as the rest of them as she plucked it from his hands. For a moment, she disappeared back into the house and returned with a handkerchief, wiping the grime from Richard’s forehead before placing a rose-colored kiss upon his cleaned skin.

She repeated the same for all of them and Oliver felt like he was walking on air on the way home, a weight having been lifted from his soul as he retired for the day before noon had even arrived. The six of them celebrated — having a particularly joyous time in the wet room whilst washing up — before collapsing on the beds, absolutely spent.

Schneewittchen was placated for the following days, being so kind as to bake them a hefty Gugelhupf the following morning as a thank you, and made it a point to tell them they should rest. They did just that, devouring the cake in place of a proper breakfast and lazing by the lake a few kilometers away from their alcove in the forest. Their day was spent along its shores until nightfall, Flake reading a book beneath a nearby tree while Paul, Oliver, and Schneider skipped rocks, drank stout, and clumsily fished with their bare hands. Till and Richard had splintered off on their own, taking the rowboat out to the lake's center to bathe in the sun and nap upon the gentle waters, undisturbed. It was a beautiful day.

That wasn’t to say that they avoided any of her fury afterward, however. For as pleasant as those first few days were, Schneewittchen kept mostly to herself in that time, a double-edged sword that they knew well the causes but erroneously ignored. Simply knowing they did not have to descend into the mines was thrilling, and they captured the opportunities brought by their holiday with fervor. The willingness to put any and all work aside came with a price.

They discovered on the fifth day that she had spent most of her previous waking hours under the influence, and upon exhausting her supply, she had entered an horrific withdrawal within the next sunrise. She became sickly, her skin pallid and clammy, her limbs involuntarily trembling. An already short-temper no longer had any buffer and she would grow enraged at the slightest inconveniences.

In the midst of this grueling episode, Schneewittchen enacted punishment upon the six of them for neglecting their work, bending each them over her lap and striking them with a wooden spatula to the point their skin was split and weeping blood. She did this every day until they supplied her enough genuine gold that her symptoms had ceased completely. They had welts for weeks.

So, Flake made the decision to begin rationing the gold, primarily to prevent further outbursts that turned their bodies and hearts into punching bags. The earth hadn’t been so generous as to grant them another fist-sized ore, but it did gift them a cluster of pieces the size of wild crab apples one Thursday evening. Schneewittchen received only one of almost a dozen rocks that night at the table. She was satisfied enough.

They managed to gradually build a surplus of golden rocks of varying sizes over the course of many weeks, hiding them at the bottom of an old keg that had long since been relegated to storage for mining tools. Having extra spoils allowed them not only a backup in case of a particularly bad dry spell, but also some respite on days where their bodies simply couldn’t bear so much strain and effort.

In spite of feeling like merely delaying the inevitable, their lives were largely peaceful for it. Oliver had to remind himself that that was all they could really do and tried to be grateful for that.

By the time the cart felt like he was pulling a mountain along with him, Oliver had all but one thing marked off on his checklist, the paper fluttering in the breeze as he clutched it between his fingers. There wasn’t even a guarantee that he’d be able to find that item today, his understanding of the market mysterious machinations often unreliable.

Resolute, he began hunting for a particular Elven merchant, one who carried a wide variety of goods from kingdoms across the continent. Oliver truly had no idea how they could get their hands on such disparate items so quickly — not to mention their remarkable quality — but it wasn’t in his place to ask. It did not matter how such goods were acquired. He had coins he was willing to spend, and as long as the item was genuine, he didn’t care.

It hadn’t taken him long, thankfully, to find the seller in question, their stall situated between a small vendor of sparkling trinkets and the entrance to a narrow alleyway. As he approached, the merchant looked at him with recognition and greeted him warmly, their station lacking a queue. Oliver responded with a hello, acutely aware that neither of them knew the other’s name.

Bringing his cart to a stop, Oliver stood at the stall, the counter top nearly level with his collarbones. He curled and uncurled his fingers, stretching out the muscles in his hands after holding the cart’s handles for so long. Looking up at the elf — who stood a good head taller than Oliver, who was tall by dwarf standards — Oliver made his inquiry. His voice was quiet as he asked, “Are you carrying guitar strings today? I need replacements.”

The merchant brought their hands together in an emphatic clap. “Yes! One moment.” Their head disappeared behind the counter as the sounds of small, wooden drawers being opened and closed met Oliver’s ears.

Letting his eyes wander, Oliver browsed the heavily-decorated walls and fully-stocked shelves of the humble stall. Many objects he did not recognize at all — his best guess for most were obscure tools that no dwarf would have any use for — and it was difficult to spot anything he did that wasn’t just a more expensive version of something he already owned, like a ruby-encrusted belt or a dagger with a Lindworm engraved on its handle.

Amongst all the strange merchandise lining the shelving, his gaze eventually landed on an unassuming pair of gold bars, shaped like tarot cards but with the thickness of a horseshoe. Their glittering, sun-colored hue made his stomach turn.

Though no one else did, Oliver couldn’t help but blame himself for the person Schneewittchen became. Since they lived within their means — mining coal and stone was only so lucrative — before they brought her into their home, the dwarves could only express their love for her through affection, service, and quality time. Gifts weren’t an option they really had, so they compensated in each of their own ways.

But Oliver loved giving things, especially to those he loved. Physical affection wasn’t something he typically sought for and his alone time was precious to him, not willing to sacrifice it if he didn’t need to. He compensated with services — doing favors without being asked, mostly — because it was the one out of the three he found the most meaning in.

So, when he and Flake broke open a section of rock and discovered a small chunk of gold inside, his first thought was Schneewittchen, similarly rare to find and beautiful to behold. Rather than sell the ore for coins, Oliver expressed his desire to give it to their ward as a symbol of his love for her, and the others agreed.

None of them knew humans could become intoxicated from it. The first time they saw her in withdrawal was when she was barely fifteen and Oliver had felt his body fill with the black tar of guilt, a punishment for causing harm to a child that he still endured ten years on.

Refusing her any more of the gold quickly became a precarious decision. She resorted to violence with little preamble, and because she was already taller and denser that any one of them, the assault on their bodies could not be simply shaken off. One of Till’s fingers on his right hand is permanently crooked, courtesy of teenaged Schneewittchen, and Schneider was fortunate that his skull hadn’t fractured a few months ago.

A sickening shiver ran through Oliver’s body. This wasn’t what he wanted to think about on a shopping trip, not on a day that was actually going well.

Rubbing his hand against the buzzed surface of his scalp, Oliver swallowed the anxiety building in his throat. “I also need extra A and G strings,” he added, standing on his toes and pulling himself up slightly on the counter to ensure his voice carried behind the stall. “If you have them.”

“Of course, of course!” the merchant replied, reopening a pair of drawers before their head reappeared from below. They placed a shallow box atop the counter, coiled strings gently rattling inside, and then wrapped it shut with a cheap ribbon. “Eight strings, two A’s and two G’s. That’ll be thirty-four crescents.”

More expensive than he anticipated, but Oliver dug for the amount in his wallet anyway, pulling out three large half-coins and four smaller ones. “Thank you,” he murmured, giving a brief, sheepish smile as he placed the monies in the elf’s dark, long hand. He took the box and tucked it safely between a crate and a wall of the cart before bidding farewell.

The merchant waved back. “Pleasure doing business with you!”

Oliver began the long journey home, weaving through the markets and pausing at the city gates. Approaching her from the side, Oliver gave their horse — a skinny little thing named Liese — a few strokes on the neck before attaching the sprung cart to her saddle. Antsy, he mounted her as soon as he pulled her lead loose and urged her to trot quickly along the stone path out of the kingdom until it became a naked dirt road.

The rest of the ride home was peaceful, Oliver finding pleasure at the sight of the shifting trees, their leaves turning yellow and already shedding onto the earth below. As the trail thinned and the forest thickened, Oliver took in a deep breath and felt a soothing calmness wash over his body. No matter the difficulties they faced with their dearest Schneewittchen, seemingly nothing could ruin the tranquility of the woods surrounding their home. He hoped it stayed that way.

Bringing Liese to a stop, Oliver dismounted and hopped to the ground, soil crunching mutely underneath his boots. He pulled out a crate, balanced it atop the corner of the cart, and searched in one of the boxes until his fingers met leather. Taking it out, Oliver replaced the crate and then climbed up the steps of Schneewittchen’s cottage, the hardcover book heavy in his hand.

The sweet smell of Apfelstrudel filtered through the open window, the curtains drawn. Peering through, Oliver spotted Schneewittchen in her kitchen, her tall body adorned with a bright yellow sundress. He knocked on the door a few times and waited for her to turn around, and once she did, he gave her a small wave. It earned him a gentle smile.

Upon her opening the door, Oliver wordlessly held out the book, and immediately Schneewittchen’s face brightened. “My dearest Ollie!” she exclaimed, taking the hefty novel in hand. She hungrily read the words embossed on the cover before returning her gaze back to Oliver’s eyes. Leaning forward, she brought a hand to his face and cupped it, pressing a kiss on his opposite cheek. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, warmth filling his stomach as he wished she was always like this.

After, Oliver led Liese back to her stable, unhooking the cart and removing her saddle. Digging in the cart, he pulled out a large, white carrot, bringing the vegetable to her nose. With a snort, she opened her mouth and snatched the carrot with her teeth, munching on it noisily while Oliver held it steady. He gave her a pat on her shoulder and then aligned himself with the front of the cart, lifting it up by the handles and rolling it toward the cabin’s backdoor.

Schneider greeted him as he began bringing in the groceries, their lips meeting in a brief and awkward kiss as they tried to maneuver the large crate in Oliver’s arms. The two of them worked to stow away Oliver’s purchases, filling up the emptied cabinets and barren refrigerator shelves in a matter of minutes. Giving Oliver’s buttock a hearty groping, Schneider bid farewell before jogging out the door, headed for the stable to fuss over Liese and go out for a ride.

Oliver merely chuckled, turning to the box on the counter. Taking it, he made his way to the bedroom, ringing chords and muffled conversation emanating from its walls. Pushing the door open, Oliver found Paul and Richard sat upon the rug with a guitar in each of their laps. Richard’s was missing a string. They turned in his direction as the hinges quietly squeaked, Paul’s eyebrows rising high on his forehead in hope. “Did you find any?”

Oliver smiled, lifting the box in front of his chest and giving it a little shake. Paul clenched his fists in victory, hissing “Yes!” through his teeth. Richard beamed, clamoring onto his feet and taking a couple strides to grab Oliver’s guitar. “Well, then let’s go,” he said, holding the instrument by the neck and holding it out. Oliver took it eagerly, his belly buzzing with excitement at finally getting to replace its withered strings.

The rest of their afternoon was spent atop a knoll looking over the lake, a massive oak tree canopying over the little hill. The shade kept the blinding sun out of their eyes as the three of them strummed mindlessly away, singing loudly and often out of tune. Oliver’s deliberately bad high note left Paul rolling on the ground, tears seeping out his scrunched eyes as he laughed.

Eventually, their comedic ventures died down and the music pouring from Oliver and Richard’s hands blended into a soft duet, Paul letting his instrument rest atop his stomach to listen to the improvised song. As they played, Richard leaned his head to the side until his temple met Oliver’s, a small giggle erupting from his chest as he kept up with Oliver’s experimental chords, and Oliver thought about how he’d truly do anything to keep his partners happy.

* * *

Fear covered Richard’s skin with chills. His hands shook against his wishes. He felt like he was on the verge of vomiting.

Walking to the cabin, he trailed behind the others, nails digging into the meat of his palms as he climbed the front steps. With a painful gulp, he looked up at the darkened sky. The moon — heavy with a sense of foreboding — hovered distantly above their heads, a sign of how many hours they expended that day underground, only to return empty-handed for the third night in a row.

It was truly just a matter of time that the earth's stones would prove disappointing, what was once bountiful in its gifts now hollowed and vacant. The next vein of metal was likely buried deep beyond what had already been excavated, and it would take them weeks to open up a new arm of the mines in search of it. The chances of finding just one gold deposit in the process was slim.

The backup supply they had spent weeks rationing out to their ward was completely exhausted. Even the tiniest of pebbles were nowhere to be found. They'd be lucky to find just a single speck of gold dust in that old beer keg.

It had been a long time since they hit a dry spell as vicious as this one, unable to carve out any bit that would satiate Schneewittchen's dependence on such a rare metal. The withdrawals from the last time — over five years ago — were notably unkind. For days, Schneewittchen begged them to help her as she became overwhelmed with full-body tremors. Every time, she’d then switch to berating them for their failed efforts before heaving bile into a bucket, over and over. She wasn’t as violent then.

What she would do now — Richard shuddered at the thought.

Upon entering the cabin, the pit that had formed in Richard's stomach threatened to pull him down to the floor. Schneewittchen stood mere meters away, her tall form casting a shadow that loomed over the doorway. She did this sometimes, watching the door as impatience threatened to burst from her with every passing second.

It felt different this time, however. Her body was still, not a single tremor born from intoxication, withdrawal, or rage to be seen in her slender limbs. The aura of impatience she often radiated was absent and instead replaced by one of a quiet, thoughtful asperity. The intense energy filled the room, seemingly draining it of its oxygen as Richard felt himself being crushed by Schneewittchen's dark stare.

"Where is it?" she asked, her sweet voice low and steady. She made the question sound so innocuous. It only served to make the hairs on the back of Richard's neck stand on end.

Till took a small step forward, wringing his hands. "Nothing today, Liebling," he answered, bowing his head. All of them responded in kind, a collective shame washing over them as they brought their chins to their chests. Richard struggled to breathe around the growing lump in his throat.

"No," she immediately protested. "Where have you been keeping it?"

Her words nearly brought Richard to his knees, the pit in his gut trying to eat him alive. Everyone's heads shot back up. In the corner of his eye, he could see Paul’s jaw drop, but Richard did his damnedest to keep his mouth shut and his lips tight.

"I…" Till stammered. Richard couldn't see his face from where he stood, but his voice told him precisely the wide-eyed expression he wore as he tried speaking. "I'm sorry?'

Schneewittchen leaned forward, hair falling past her shoulders and eyes boring into them through thick eyelashes. The look reminded Richard of a predator preparing to lunge at their prey. "Where have you been keeping it?" she repeated, enunciating each word sharply against her teeth.

"I don't…" Till began, the statement trailing to nothing as a panic swept over all six of them, the floor falling out from under them. No one else spoke a word. They hardly made a sound at all.

Schneewittchen stared at him for a few moments longer as the room fell silent once more, the heat of her piercing gaze making Richard want to curl into himself, a primal instinct to protect his soft belly and the organs it carried. His shoulders hunched forward and his hands came to his sternum as a cluster of nerves and chewed cuticles.

Then, slow and unfaltering, Schneewittchen turned her gaze to Flake, who stood beside Till. His lean body was slouched, drowning in his clothes. He hadn't been eating well the past couple weeks and it showed. A twinge made a home in the core of Richard's chest and refused to leave.

"Flake, dear," Schneewittchen spoke, her tone warm but her face as cold as stone. She brought her hand to Flake’s cheek, cupping it gently with large, elegant fingers. They were long enough that they wrapped around the back of his head, which seemed more like pinning his head in place rather than cradling it with affection. "Surely you wouldn't want to hide anything from me, would you?"

Flake stuttered, visibly beginning to tremble as Schneewittchen stroked her thumb along his cheekbone. “Sonnenschein,” he started, pertinently trying to still his muscles whilst in her hold. “What are you saying?”

Schneewittchen tilted her head just slightly, a smirk pulling at her rouge lips. Richard didn’t know how to read it, but the expression made his stomach turn regardless. “It’s very convenient, getting an acorn-sized piece every day when the six of you come home,” she spoke again, her voice lowered a half pitch. “Give or take a few grams, of course.”

Richard sank to the center of the earth.

"T-that's what we managed to find in the walls," Flake said, failing to keep his voice even. "Sometimes the veins… they cluster, you know? The deposits are small and…"

Schneewittchen tightened her grip around Flake's skull, her knuckles turning white as the digits gripped his hair and prepared to pull. "Lying is not chivalrous, Flake."

Something in Richard went aflame, something instinctual and reflexive. A man possessed — by what exactly, he didn't know — he weaved through the small crowd gathered before him and wedged himself between his partner and their ward. Flake's nose brushed against the top of his head as he separated the two of them, reaching behind and grabbing Flake's arm. "He isn't lying," Richard declared, shielding Flake with his back flush against his chest. “There’s no secret cache.”

Silent, Schneewittchen straightened her posture, her eyes hardening as Flake was stolen from her grasp. She gazed down at Richard, watched him as he pushed Flake back until his fingertips could no longer reach him. A restrained scowl darkened her features and her breathing became shallower.

Then, she swung her open hand at Richard's face, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing violently in the tiny house. A chorus of gasps punctuated the slap as Richard stumbled to the right, his left ear ringing louder than the surprise that sounded from behind him. For a few solid seconds, light danced in Richard's vision, splotches a myriad of colors fading in and out over his retina.

Just as he began to find his bearings once more, Richard felt a pair of hands grasping him, shoving him forward onto the ground. He landed painfully with his knees and chin making contact with the hard floor, mind disoriented. Trying to get up, Richard was pushed back down by a heeled shoe stomping on his shoulder blades, knocking the air out of his lungs.

"You all instilled in me that lying was unacceptable." Schneewittchen's voice was distant, hard to make out amongst the white noise filling his senses as he tried to breathe. "I took those lessons to heart, yet you seemingly haven't."

The foot pressing down on his spine released him, only to then crush his elbow, pressing the joint flat to the floor and effectively pinning the entire left side of his body down. He grunted against his wishes, the painful pressure on his arm enough that he feared she’d fracture the bones from her body weight alone.

He could try to escape from her clutches, try to kick against the floor with his boots and maneuver out from under her, but he knew without having to try that it would be fruitless. Attempting would only serve to worsen whatever punishment she had in mind for him, something he desperately wanted to avoid.

“Richard,” she called. He craned his neck to look at her, her face nothing but a blurry shape in his peripheral vision as she towered above him. “Where are you keeping the gold?”

Clenching his teeth, he said nothing, contributing to the oppressive silence that filled the room with stagnant air. Tearing his eyes from Schneewittchen’s hazy visage, Richard looked up to the five faces staring back at him, horror widening their eyes and choking their throats. Meeting their eyes was somehow more painful than what Schneewittchen was subjecting him to, so he just as quickly looked away.

“I see.” Schneewittchen knelt down to the floor, putting all of her weight onto Richard’s elbow as she did. He hissed through his teeth, but kept his jaw tight as he tried following her eyes. She stared back at him, grabbing the hand that lie helplessly affixed to the floor. Then, just barely, she pulled at the limb, testing the flexibility of his joints. Richard groaned, biting down hard as he struggled to muffle his whines.

A curious hum. “So,” she began, leaning down until she was eye-level to Richard, who huffed fiercely through his nose. “I am going to give you ten seconds to tell me where it is.”

Then, she started a countdown. Richard’s heart thundered inside his chest, beating so intensely he could feel it in his ears. Looking into her deep brown eyes — circles so dark it was like staring directly into an endless abyss — Richard came to the realization that she was sober.

Still, he refused to reveal the lie or even speak at all, terrified more by what she would do to the rest of them — particularly Flake — if he relented.

By the time she reached seven, her tone shifted, venom spilling from her lips as she descended down the list. She didn’t break eye contact the entire time, and all Richard could do was breathe.

At four, Till took a step forward. “Schneewittchen, don’t—”

“Quiet!” she screamed, darting her gaze to Till. Her roaring bellow made all of them jump. Richard winced. “I wasn’t speaking to you! Interrupt me again and you’ll experience worse.”

Richard watched Till deflate, returning to his place by the support beam with a step backward. Paul lowered to one of his knees as if he were about to launch into a sprint, his chest rising and falling visibly as he rested shaky hands upon his legs. Oliver and Schneider had long since backed themselves flat against the wall, their hands clutching onto Flake and keeping him up on his feet.

The countdown continued and so did her crippling glare, tears stinging Richard’s eyes as he gazed back at her. She reached one and the beat of silence that followed was deafening.

With a disappointed smack of her tongue against her teeth, Schneewittchen raised her head. “Well then. Let’s teach you the hard way.”

Faster than any of them could register, Schneewittchen yanked Richard’s arm until it met her thigh. The crunch of his radius snapping in half and the blood-curdling scream that tore through his throat was so loud it sounded like lightening had struck through the roof above their heads.

Pain shot through him immediately, the sensation so overwhelming he couldn’t even tell where his body existed in space anymore. Something warm trickled down his skin as Schneewittchen held his arm against her leg, her foot still planted firmly on his elbow. Tears leaked from his screwed-shut eyes. He couldn’t stop wailing.

“To the best of my knowledge…” came Schneewittchen’s voice, barely audible above his own screaming. “You have never lied to me before. I can’t tolerate dishonesty, not from any of you.”

She let go of his hand. His arm fell limply to the floor, the limb twisted and malformed. Blood pooled around his elbow, weeping from a small wound created by fractured bone puncturing the skin. Richard, however, saw none of this as the excruciating pain barred him from opening his eyes, sobbing open-mouthed into the hardwood floor in a small puddle of his own spit and tears. Part of him was thankful for that. The sight of blood made him ill.

Schneewittchen removed herself from Richard’s body, stepping back and watching the five others frozen with fear. “For each day you fail me, I will break a bone,” she warned lowly, pointing a finger down to Richard’s writhing form. “Each of you, one by one.”

After a moment, her hand returned to her side, waiting. Paul — his eyes quickly darting between the two — leapt forward, crawling to Richard’s side. “Sonnenschein, I give you my word,” he promised breathlessly, his fingers clutching onto the thin fabric covering Richard’s back.

Saying nothing to that, Schneewittchen looked down at Paul for an elongated moment before leaving for the entryway, slamming the door shut behind her.

A procession of heavy footsteps followed Paul’s shouts, bodies scrambling onto the floor surrounding Richard.

“Richard! Fuck!” Paul cried, looking at the twisted arm, the pool of blood spreading and soaking into the fabric of Paul’s trousers. “What do we do? Till!”

A pair of hands wrap around his mangled arm, each hand cuffed around the leaking wound. The pain worsened. “Christoph, go to the shed, cut up some rope!” Till ordered, his voice emanating right over Richard’s head as he kept his arm stable.

Schneider, still frozen, took a moment to respond. Then, with his face a sickly pallor, he bolted out the back, the door clumsily swinging in the wind and bouncing against the wall. He left behind Flake, who wavered on his feet before regaining his balance, Oliver holding tight to his middle.

Till continued, shouting more out of stress than necessity. “Flake, search the apothecary cabinet! Ollie, take Liese, go to the nearest village, and find a healer!” His voice cracked as he yelled, his breath hitching on the last word. Another pair of hands — smaller, with a particular kind of calluses on the fingertips — reached for Richard’s head, digits brushing the hair off his forehead and a palm comfortingly cupping his cheek. They trembled upon his skin.

For a brief moment, the cabin became a house of chaos as Flake and Ollie ran off, their boots echoing loudly as they fled in opposite directions. Paul’s panicked tirade resumed, the man speaking without really thinking as he begged Till for answers.

It was at this point that Richard began to lose focus, the throbbing pain encompassing his arm spreading and resting over the rest of his body like a thick wool blanket. It became harder and harder to listen to the voices of his partners, their words turning into mere clusters of syllables with no meaning. Distantly, Richard had the thought that centering his attention on something other than his broken arm would help ease the torture assaulting his body, but such self-help was a lost cause.

His agonized sobs faded, replaced by hollowed gasps. The tears streaming down his face were endless.

“Till, she’s never done anything like this before,” Paul said, his breathing bordering on hyperventilating. “She was dusted when she beat Christoph, but this? Fuck, she was sober, Till! What do we do? What is she—”

A hand clasped over Paul’s mouth. “Paul,” Till interrupted, brows furrowed heavily over his eyes. He spoke solidly, determined, clear-headed. The rock that held camp in place. The anchor that prevented the boat from drifting away. “Stop. Listen to me.”

Paul simply nodded. Till pulled his hand away, leaving behind a vibrant smear of blood across Paul’s chin. He returned his fingers to Richard’s arm, gripping the limb so tightly to try and stymie the bleeding that his knuckles burned white. It earned him another groan. “Right now, we have to focus on Richard. Schneewittchen…” he paused, his words steady but his eyes wet. “Schneewittchen will just have to wait.”

Footprints approached once again, Flake carrying a tall vial of blue liquid in one hand and a rolled up dishtowel in the other. A large bath towel was neatly folded and tucked under his arm. “All I could find was this,” he murmured, raising the bottle up slightly.

“Okay,” Till replied, glancing at Paul and Flake. “Help me roll him onto his back.”

Flake knelt on the floor, hastily placing the folded towel besides Richard’s head and slipping the vial into his pocket. The rolled towel was thrown on his shoulder. Till returned to his feet and squatted, stepping over Richard’s back. On the count of three, Till slowly rotated Richard’s arm along with his body as Paul and Flake rolled him over. Flake cradled his head, setting it atop the makeshift pillow.

As careful as they were in keeping his broken arm stable, however, Richard let out another cry, a gasp that mutated into another fit of sobs once he lay flat on his back. Paul brought a hand to his head, gently shushing him and petting his hair as he did. Irrational guilt flooded Richard’s chest at the soothing gestures, thinking about how badly Schneider was beaten. No one babied him, he thought, What makes me different?

The answer was obvious, of course. Schneider was unconscious by the time Schneewittchen landed the fourth blow to his head. He didn’t have to suffer like this, didn’t have to feel his entire body light aflame as his brain tried to make sense of the ache. Perhaps he was lucky in that way.

But, that wasn’t entirely true. Richard saw him the next morning, how unsteady he was on his feet, how mottled with bruises and swelling Schneider’s face was. He was left with his imagination on how Schneider felt that day, and — in the midst of the throes of pain flooding his body — he dimly thought that he had a pretty good reference point now.

A soundly pop rang by his ear. Then, cool glass was brought to his lips. “Here,” he heard Flake say. “Open your mouth.”

He did, a lukewarm liquid flowing past his lips. It tasted horrid and filled his belly with an unpleasant warming sensation, but even in his pain-addled state, he knew it was necessary. All he could do was try to keep it down.

Another set of boots echoed into the cabin, stopping right by Richard’s feet. Schneider panted as if he had just ran the distance from the kingdom, carrying a spool of rope on his shoulder, two pieces of rope in one hand, and a sheathed knife in the other.

“Christoph, help me cuff his arm,” Till ordered, still squeezing the color out of Richard’s limb.

The two of them did just that, Richard letting out a few gasps as they worked. Right as Schneider finished knotting the last tourniquet, Richard felt heat hover over his face. “Richard,” Till said, his mouth mere centimeters away from Richard’s nose. He sounded tender. “This is going to hurt.”

Then, pain shot through his arm erratically as a towel was pressed against his wound. The howl that rushed from his lungs was grating to his own ears, grinding his teeth as he rode out the waves crushing the left side of his body. Hands sprawled over him, resting on his uninjured arm, his legs, his waist as he wept. As awful as this all felt, he couldn’t help but soak up the overwhelming love surrounding him.

He thought of Oliver, saddened that he was the only one not here. He missed him already.

After a while — whether it was seconds, minutes, or hours, Richard couldn’t tell — the torment of his senses began to dissipate, a fuzzy sensation beginning at his toes and slowly crawling up his body. The rope was far less comfortable against his skin than Till’s hands, but such things began to matter less and less, his body growing increasingly weightless with every second that passed. He suddenly felt very tired. Numb, even.

As he let himself fall unconscious, the only thing he could think about is that he wouldn’t want bleed out or end up dying of some kind of infection. He’d like to spend another day on the lake, dozing off on Till’s chest to the sounds of Paul and Schneider’s laughter.

A beat. “Richard?” Paul called, his voice suddenly very small.

“He’s passed out,” Till answered soberly, his words laden with exhaustion. “All we can do now is wait.”

* * *

Chilly, autumnal air bit at Till’s arms, the moon bright above and illuminating the forest floor with blue glow. He sat upon the front porch, staring at nothing as he puffed at his pipe.

The smoke filled Till’s lungs with a peculiar sourness. He didn’t know how old these herbs were — it had been a while since he felt the need to imbibe in such things — but they didn’t sit right, their scent off-kilter and their taste unpleasant. Still, he breathed it in, the nicotine fueling the anxious energy that restlessly made his leg bounce.

Behind him, the door quietly creaked open, the hinges old and worn. Without looking over his shoulder, he knew it was Flake and Oliver. Paul and Schneider hadn’t left Richard’s side since Schneewittchen left him broken and bleeding, and he couldn’t think of a single reason why they’d part from him now. Till took a deep pull from his pipe.

Though time had little meaning to him in this moment, he knew that it was late, the sun only hours away from peering over the mountains and shining her wondrous light. Sleep felt like an impossible task not just to him, but also to his partners, with even Richard being awake late into the night.

It was hard to think of anything that wasn’t the events of a few hours prior, a cruel loop playing in his head, haunting him. The wet crunching sound of Richard’s arm shattering. The blood-curdling scream he let out as he laid in a growing puddle of red. The blood soaking into his clothing. The pained expression twisting his face. The limpness of his body as he fell asleep and the whimpers as he was roused from his rest. The sobs as the healer splinted his arm.

He had gotten to the point where he couldn’t stand to look at him anymore, couldn’t even be in the same room. There was a weight pushing down on his chest, suffocating him, making him want nothing more than to lie down, curl up into himself, and weep. Nonetheless, he stayed by Richard’s side for as long as the healer was there.

They were all thankful of the witch Oliver had found, a small woman whose facial structure bore petite and atypical features. Her voice matched her tiny stature, high-pitched and notably steady, describing the purpose of her treatments and relaying post-care instructions to them all as she worked. She had a ghostly quality to her, her pale skin almost translucent beneath her dark robes.

Till didn’t know what she was — human, fairy, maybe even a kobold — as he was certain she was not a fellow dwarf, but she was incredibly kind. Upon the presentation of payment from Schneider, she gently pushed his fingers closed over the crescents and denied the money. He watched as Schneider’s eyes — already bloodshot and weary — begin to glimmer with tears while he quietly thanked her for such generosity. Her only requests were a pint of lager — which she effortlessly downed in one go — and a ride back to her village, which Oliver gladly granted her.

Not since he was young did Till believe in angels, but he couldn’t help but feel she was as close to one as any corporeal being could be. He would have to track her down in the near future, thank her properly for such kindness and selflessness with a gift.

With her gone, however, the uplifting balance she brought to the cabin had vanished as well, and that suffocating sensation that bordered on hopelessness returned. Till tried to drown it out with smoke, to fill out the anxiety that settled in his guts in its place. He was unsuccessful.

His ears were filled with a faint noise, interrupted only by a gentle breeze rattling the leaves and the distant hooting of an owl. Flake and Oliver remained soundless at his back, silence separating them with its invisible walls. The fact that they had yet to say a word meant that they likely had the same problem, that the inside of the house and the pain its walls held became too oppressive to bear.

“You know,” Till began, smoke pouring from his lips as he spoke, “she’s going to destroy all of us. Slowly. One by one.”

Flake made an uncomfortable groaning sound. Oliver said nothing.

Taking another drag from the pipe, Till looked out into the trees. He blew the smoke out in a billowing cloud, the wisps floating off towards Schneewittchen’s cottage. He watched the path they took, white tails curling around the panes of her bedroom window before quickly dissipating in the cold wind.

There.

Standing up, Till pulled the pipe from his mouth, his jaw clenched tight. He turned around but did not make eye contact with either of his partners as he stepped back onto the porch, carefully pushing between them to get through the door. His feet thudded loudly against the floor as he marched inside, Flake and Oliver following close behind.

“Till?” Flake called, a sliver of concern creeping into his voice. That captured the attention of Schneider, Richard, and Paul, their heads turning to follow Till as he stomped into the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” Paul loudly asked, poised to rise from his spot on the couch. When he was ignored, he lowered his voice. “Hey, Ollie? What is it?”

Schneider shouted, already on his feet and trailing after him. “Did something happen, Till?”

None of them received an answer, Till consumed with determination as he dropped the pipe on the counter, burnt herbs scattering over the stone surface. He reached for the knife block, wrapping his hand around the largest handle and pulling out a blade almost as large as his forearm.

His vision tunneled, Till returned to the main room and went straight to the entryway, barreling through the front door as the others continued calling out to him.

Just as his boots met mist-soaked dirt, he felt a spindly hand pulling at his arm, stopping him in his tracks. He pivoted slightly to find Flake staring at him with wide eyes, bewildered. Oliver stood closely behind, practically on top of Flake’s heels. Along the cabin’s porch stood the rest of his partners, Schneider halfway down the steps while Paul clutched onto Richard’s uninjured arm. They all watched him, apprehensive and afraid.

“Till, what are you doing?” Flake asked, still gripping onto Till’s bare arm.

Till stared back at him, his brain running a kilometer a second. It was becoming harder and harder to speak. “We have no other option,” he finally said, his voice low and quiet. His hand gripped tighter around the knife.

Flake looked as if the wind had been knocked out of him. “You don’t mean…” he started, searching Till’s eyes.

Till simply gazed back, unwavering.

“No!” Flake hissed, hardly keeping his volume at a whisper. Horror filled his face, his skin turning pale. “Till, have you gone mad? We can’t…”

“Flake, Richard isn’t going to be able to work for months,” Schneider interrupted, stepping down the stairs to stand beside them, “and we can’t guarantee that we’ll find any gold tomorrow or any day after, especially with only five of us.”

Schneider reached out a hand, resting it upon Flake’s arm that still held Till’s in place. “You saw what she did to me, what she did to Richard,” he continued. In the faint light of the moon, Till could see the thin line of scar tissue splitting Schneider’s top lip. In the corner of his eye, the white sling holding up Richard’s shattered arm stuck out in the darkness, such clean fabric stark against his black shirt.

“She will stop at nothing to get what she wants and she will hurt all of us in the process,” Schneider finished, his words trembling with emotion.

Till watched as Flake turned around, looking to Richard and Paul, the two of them huddled together in the chilly air. Richard agreed, grief distorting his features as he did so. Paul followed with a grim nod, pulling Richard’s arm closer to his chest. Just over Flake’s shoulder, Oliver wore an apologetic expression, silently assenting to the decision.

The grip on Till’s arm eased, then slowly slid away. Flake deflated, as if the truth of the situation suddenly became too much for his shoulders to bear. He let out a sigh, shaky and saddened. “Okay.”

Till reached forward, cupping his hand around Flake’s nape and pulling his head down just slightly. He brought his lips to Flake’s forehead, feeling the thin man tremble against him. No more words were traded when they parted. The terror that painted Flake’s face remained, but a great sadness seeped through it and Till felt his heart ache at the sight.

Then, silently, the six of them began the brief trek to Schneewittchen’s home, taking the familiar and worn trail up the hill. Not a single lamp or candle glowed from the inside, the windows filled with darkness. The moonlight served as their only guide through the trees, illuminating the mossy forest floor with speckled rays of blue.

An early morning breeze brushed by their feet. The massive oak tree that canopied over Schneewittchen’s cottage rustled against the roof shingles and shielded the sound of steel-toed boots climbing wooden stairs. Atop her porch, the six of them stopped, facing the white-painted door with a terrified reverence. Till moved first, carefully placing the knife on the floor and untying his boots. Flake and Oliver followed suit.

Knife held firmly in his hand, Till twisted the doorknob and, when he discovered that it was indeed unlocked, tried not to think about how easy it would be someone else to do harm to Schneewittchen. Hypocrisy is not becoming of you, he could hear her say in his head. He felt dissociated, watching someone else puppet his body.

Socked feet mutely walked along the polished planks, their bare counterparts leaving behind dirt and microscopic flora in their wake. Despite its age, the house had settled well, hardly a creak to be heard or a draft to be felt. Till was always proud that they built her such a sturdy home. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

Her bedroom door hung slightly ajar, the foot of the bed visible between the gap, white satin sheets lightly glimmering in the moonlight peering through the window. Slowly, Till pushed the door open, one hand flat against the panels and the other white-knuckled around the knife handle. A burst of wind whistling past the walls hid the whine of the door hinges.

He walked up to her sleeping form until his knees were flush to the mattress, her bed nearly at half his height. Till’s heart was calm in his chest, but it ached as if a knife were plucking at its strings.

Schneewittchen lied on her side, a delicate, pastel blue nightgown covering her shoulders and disappearing under the bedsheets. Both of her hands rested plainly on the mattress by her chest. She breathed evenly. Her eyes did not flicker back and forth behind her eyelids — she was in a deep sleep.

He stared at her placid visage, her stark hair pulled back neatly in a braid to reveal a pale and naked face, barren of any makeup. It was so strange to see her without ruby lips, a feature she decided she couldn’t be without when they gave her a palm-sized pan of red lipstick for her 14th birthday.

Even plain-faced, she was a radiant sight to behold. It reminded him of when he found her that night so long ago. How her feet were caked with mud and dead grass, how puffy her eyes were from crying, how her chin trembled as she tried to hold in her cries. A mere child lost in the woods. His child.

Till raised the knife and reached a hand out, preparing to push her onto her back, to make the strike. There was a pause before his fingers touched her.

The tears bit at his eyes and ran hot against his skin, droplets running down his face and landing inaudibly on the bedspread.

He bit back a sob. His child. His Sonnenschein. His Schneewittchen.

A hand carefully took a hold of his, long fingers wrapping around the handle. His vision blurry, Till turned to Oliver, stared at his sorrowful eyes as the blade was pried from his grip. Till simply let him take it.

Another hand pulled at his waist from behind, the hand splayed over his stomach. Paul held him there, his head pressed against his arm as they watched. He could feel tears dripping down to his elbow.

In one swift motion, Oliver pushed Schneewittchen’s shoulder away and plunged the knife into her chest.

She awoke with a start. Blood quickly stained her nightgown, the liquid appearing black in the dim light. It didn’t take long for her to begin to gurgle and choke on her own blood as it gushed up her throat and out of her mouth.

Flake turned away, clutching onto Till’s left arm as if it were a lifeline. In the corner of his vision, he saw Schneider bring a hand to his mouth. Even in the dark, he could see the tears in his eyes.

Her hands were shaky as she reached for the handle protruding from her breast. Widened, almost feral eyes darted across the room as she searched, seemingly attempting to make sense of what was happening to her. She looked betrayed. Till wept harder, yearning for it to be over soon.

Fruitlessly, she tried to wrest Oliver’s fingers from the grip, her breathing reduced to short, wet gasps. The pitiful sounds filled the room to a deafening degree. Their sobs simply filled in the blanks.

Grunting, Oliver set a knee atop the mattress, grabbing the knife with both hands and bearing down his body weight atop the hilt of the blade. Schneewittchen responded with a quiet mewl of pain, her grip weakly wrapping around his wrists instead. She gazed up at him, scared. He stared down at her. Till couldn’t see his face.

They stayed like that for what felt like centuries.

Then, her body went slack, taking her last breath as her eyes looked emptily at the ceiling, lying in sheets saturated with warm blood. Her fingers remained loosely wrapped around Oliver’s wrists.

Oliver pulled the knife out of her chest and let it fall to the floor. The metal clattered loudly in its landing.

Till watched Schneider enfold Oliver in an embrace, the latter just standing there as blood dripped from his hands. Richard buried his face in Paul’s shoulder and wailed, his entire body quivering with his cries.

There was nothing left to do but mourn.

* * *

It was strange to find golden ore and feel not relief but resigned excitement. How odd to be able to sell the gold, to not have to surrender out of a complicated mess of love and fear. To climb up from the mines and not worry about how their work would be evaluated felt almost unprecedented. Years had passed since these things became abnormal.

Adjusting to their lives without Schneewittchen was still a considerable task months later. Working, perhaps unexpectedly, kept their minds occupied, letting muscle memory take over as they picked, hacked, and dug out anything that could be peddled in the markets. Evening would arrive and five of them would make the trek home, their bodies sore and their stomachs growling.

Richard would welcome them in, happy to see them after being secluded for hours on end. Joining them in the mines was a pointless task with his arm still in a cast, so he instead spent his time with other tasks. Brewing beer, transcribing music, and foraging proved decently profitable.

No one else would be waiting for them nor would any guests arrive as they settled down.

Everything was the same, yet so different.

Dinner was always a group effort, too many bodies in the kitchen to fit comfortably, but there was little complaint. They’d eat and then sit by the fire, congregated in an assortment of positions as the sun fully disappeared behind the mountains. Often, Till was already slipping into sleep on the sofa as Paul played with his hair. Flake would curl up with a book, his cold feet buried under Till’s legs. Schneider, Oliver, and Richard would sprawl on the floor, stretching out their backs after hours of being hunched over.

It was in the quiet moments — scrubbing off the grime from their bodies, going through the interim of lying in bed and falling asleep, waiting for a snowstorm to pass — that they’d be reminded.

Sometimes, Paul would start weeping in the midst of plucking at his guitar, trying to continue the song and abandoning the instrument when he failed.

Oliver would stare at the red ribbon they had tied around a support beam for just a moment too long and then excuse himself to the bathroom, scrubbing at his hands until the skin was raw.

Till would find an old drawing tucked away in the bookcase. He’d soon drown himself in alcohol, drinking hard spirits like it was water as he isolated himself in the shed, surrounded by old and broken things.

Schneider would go for a walk, his legs moving on his own as his eyes filled with tears. He often returned home with bloodied knuckles, minuscule fragments of tree bark clinging to his hands.

Richard would wake from a nightmare and stay in bed long, long after his partners had left for the caverns, his arm aching.

Flake would visit her grave and sit there for hours, unmoved by the bitter cold biting at his ears and the tip of his nose. Wind would whistle through the bare branches of the tree above, a fruitless thing that bore a carving of the sun in its trunk.

But every day got easier, the grief a little less painful.

That thought alone was both comforting and tortuous. To think that it would ever be easy to heal from the abuse she paid unto them. To think that they could ever recover from losing their child, once to gold and another by their own hands. To think that they ever had any choice in the matter, else they faced their own destruction.

Schneewittchen, her love in one hand and retribution in the other.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece kind of got really out of hand, but I would be lying if I said it wasn't incredibly fun to write. Special thanks to my friend Julie for being my personal cheerleader through much of this project. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always deeply appreciated. ♡


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